The Butcher of Santaville – by Musk Oxen

A date thingy? Ah! Calendar

**Disclaimer**

No animals were harmed during the production of this story. As to after, well… that’s out of my hands. Look, what they do on their own time is up to them, okay! I’m sorry for that shameful outburst. Some scenes may invoke a slight churning of the stomach. If you feel the need to vomit, please use a suitable receptacle. And no, that doesn’t mean the ugly pot-plant you’ve always hated. Nah, only kidding.

I implore you to check the other stories. Like me, they’re probably reaching the burnt out stage of their little grey cells, so please, give them a look.

Blitz’s Meat Shop. Open for business.

Day 8. My Editor called this morning, barking profanities, pointing out I had until tomorrow to get the story to bed or she’d fire me. As if! No. She wouldn’t?

*Bricking it, I ventured out in the mother of all snowstorms and crossed the border into the shady meat district of Santaville. Blitzen ‘The Butcher’ domain. No one spoke of it openly, but I was sure he enjoyed the job. A little too much, perhaps. I saw the lights and headed towards the shop.

The smell of raw meat made me gag. The sound of a cleaver striking through bone tightened my sphincter, rupturing another stitch. I felt a warm trickle slip down my buttock and held my breath.

‘What have you got for me today, Tony?’ A voice boomed from the back room. ‘Mmm, fresh Oxen. Haven’t had that for a while.’

Shit! I stared at the counter. Reindeer Sausages. Narwhal Kebabs. Prime Rump of Caribou. What the hell was I doing here!

The curtain rustled. Blitzen stood in the doorway, brushing his hooves on his bloodied apron. ‘Get him!’

‘No. Wait!’ I turned quick, seeing a uniformed Arctic Hare pointing something at me. I knew I should never have trusted those damn fluffy animals.

‘Taser-taser-taser!’ he screamed. I fell to my knees convulsing, as 100,000 volts coursed through my body.